


Drive

by HollowRosewood



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Falling In Love, Friendship, Gen, Grantaire - Freeform, He’s actually decent at feelings, M/M, Oops, Slice of Life, This is a very close knit group of friends who care about each other, enjolras loves his friends, however, is also decent at feelings, let them live in relative peace from time to time, tbh this was supposed to be only 2000 words and uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 05:21:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20384338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollowRosewood/pseuds/HollowRosewood
Summary: For as long as Grantaire had known Enjolras, he never saw the other as a very… comforting... person. He was tactile and affectionate, he loved his friends dearly and he was always supportive of everything they did. (Grantaire had stopped being surprised when Enjolras would randomly show up to his galleries) But the cynic wouldn’t consider the leader to be the type to coddle and hold hands with someone if they were upset. That usually fell onto Courfeyrac, the center often taking the distressed by the hand and guiding them away while Enjolras continued the meeting.Courfeyrac’s eyes widened in understanding before his face split into a sudden, massive grin.“Oh my god..” He said, crouching in his chair with his hands on the back of it, peering over at Grantaire like an animal ready to pounce. “You’ve never had a Ride with Enjolras before have you.”It was worded as a question, though the friends knew it was anything but. Grantaire could hear the capitalized R, and it only made him more curious.“A.. a ride?”“No, dude, a Ride.”





	Drive

**Author's Note:**

> You can rip this headcanon from my cold, dead, hands. May or may not include others later on. Enjoy!

The backroom of the Musain was loud per usual, the political activist group that used it for their meetings had once more taken up the space. Official matters had been discussed and information had been sent out- many had left, a few loitering around downstairs in the bar to enjoy a few drinks and catch up. The core group of friends had stayed in the backroom, choosing to enjoy one another's company- attending to tasks or simply gossiping. 

Grantaire sat in the back corner as he usually did, leaning back on two legs of his chair and letting the wall behind him keep him upright. He was nursing a drink, the only one he’s really had for the night. He closed his eyes and let the environment wash over him, the sound of his friends laughing and talking amongst themselves. Further to his left, he could hear Jehan nervously reciting their poetry to Bahorel, as if the giant boxer won’t lift the gentle poet into a bone crushing hug and announce to the entire room- world, if he could- how amazing Jehan was with words. Feuilly had already left, but the smell of his cigarettes and the touch of his hand still lingered on Grantaire's shoulder.

He didn’t need to see the mighty Triumvirate to know what they were doing, Enjolras and Combeferre with their heads bowed together over textbooks while Courfeyrac tried to subtly distract them. The center will get Combeferre soon enough and the leader will determinedly continue to read, but hide a gentle smile behind his curls. 

Marius was on his laptop, Grantaire could hear the gentle tapping directly to his right, but he would pause in his studies to text back Cosette with such a love-sick smile and cheeks pink. It was sweet, in its own Marius Pont-puppy way, but a little exhausting considering they’ve been together for a few years now. 

Those years have been interesting, they’ve had ups and downs, anger and joy. Sometimes its been dark, days where accidents have happened, where things have gone wrong, when the world doesn’t feel right. Days when they drag their weary bodies into the Musain door and clean the blood off of each other’s faces and wonder how they got there. Days when their fighting echoes off the walls and rattle the streets of Paris, when childhood best friends turn their backs on each other and both walk away worse then when they came. 

But then there are days like this, where Grantaire only has a bottle in his hand for principle alone and his friends are surrounding him. When they are all laughing and cheering, cracking jokes and playing pranks on one another. It was days when Jehan would run their fingers through Enjolras' hair and put flowers in his curls, the leader not having the heart to shoo them away. Days when Joly would strike a pose with his leg propped up on a chair to show off his brand new leather pants that were supposed to be a joke but actually look ridiculously good on him. Days when Courfeyrac would grab Grantaire by the hand and drag him to the center of the room to dance wildly to music that wasn’t playing. 

“GUYS!” Came the sudden roar of Bahorel, demanding the attention of the entire room. The soft murmurs fell silent and Grantaire cracked open his eyes, pleased to see that his predictions had come true. “DID YOU KNOW-“ 

“Bahorel pleas-“ Jehan tried to plead, their cheeks pink and their smile gentle. They should know better than to try and stop the man, but at least they’re making an effort. 

“THAT JEHAN FUCKING PROUVAIRE IS THE BEST GOD DAMN POET IN THE FUCKING WORLD!?” 

The room remained quiet, all eyes locked on Bahorel who sat with his head held high and his eyes alight, daring anyone to question his word. Not that anyone would, of course. Jehan sat beside him, their face hidden behind their well loved notebook.

“Obviously.” Combeferre finally said, squinting over at Bahorel. Not because he was glaring at him, no. Courfeyrac had succeeded in pulling the guide away from his work, and Grantaire noticed that he had done so by stealing Combeferre’s glasses. 

Some members of the room erupted into laughter, others fondly shaking their heads and returning to their tasks. Grantaire caught Jehan swiping at Bahorel’s bicep with their book, scolding the man for putting them on the spot like that but Bahorel was too busy filling the room with his laughter. The cynic dropped the legs of his chair back onto all fours with a clutter, startling Marius beside him. 

“You good?” Grantaire asked, arching a teasing brow and shouldering the young Pontmercy.

“Oh! Ah, yes!” Marius flushed, smiling over at Grantaire before tilting his laptop slightly to allow the resident cynic to see his work. “I’ve been working on translating this passage here, but there are a lot of root words that link back towards entirely separate languages… I suppose the noise startled me.” 

Grantaire nodded appreciatively at the work, though he had no idea what was actually happening on the screen. Marius didn’t need to know that though. He leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm as he watched Marius with amusement sparking in his eye.

“So my chair startled you, but not Bahorel yelling across the room?” 

“Bahorel yelled across the room?” 

“Oh Pontmercy, whatever shall we do with you.” Grantaire sighed, getting up and patting the young man's head with affection and striding away. Marius stared after him a moment longer, clearly lost, before returning to his work. 

As Grantaire wandered around the room, going from table to table to provide amusement to those who were lounging and distraction to those who were working, he noticed that a particular pair were missing. He frowned, his half full bottle of alcohol being replaced by a coke glass somewhere in his travels, and slid up besides Enjolras. 

He dropped down next to the leader in red, neither of them saying a word as Enjolras continued to mark up his textbook and revise his paper. From the look at the red marks on the essay, it appeared as if Combeferre had already done some corrections. 

Their relationship wasn’t something that Grantaire really knew how to describe. It had started unsteady, though R feared that had more to do with himself then it did with Enjolras. He came in searching, itching, yearning for a fight and at first the blonde had been impossible to get a rise out of. It was only when things got personal that they got truly heated, when misunderstandings led onto something toxic. He had made a point to frustrate Enjolras until the leader had no other choice to rebuttal with a tongue so sharp and deadly. Looking back now, Grantaire was embarrassed with himself- almost, almost, feeling bad about the things he would say. Some of Enjolras’s comments still haunted him. It was a miracle the two didn’t break out into a physical brawl.

Well, not really, Enjolras had the patience of a god and Grantaire lacked the ability to behave. 

That, Grantaire realized later on, was where the fault was. He had inadvertently dehumanized the blonde, hoisting him up on a pedestal that neither of them would ever reach. Not only was he damaging his own self image, giving him a god to compare himself to and grovel underneath, but he was hurting Enjolras. He had put Enjolras so far above him that every glare and insult, as arousing as they were, had struck him deeper then they were supposed to. He took Enjolras’s word as truth. Bossuet and Enjolras could say the same thing, and he would laugh at one and drink the sorrows away from the other.

They had gotten better, over time. Grantaire learned that Enjolras was flawed, that he was human, and Enjolras learned that Grantaire was not direct in his passions. Where the leader would be loud and true about his actions and his wants, R would wait and come through with tasks in an unconventional way and on his own time. It only took one night, a night Grantaire thought about often, that brought them closer. A night of confessions, not of love, but of life. They spent more time together, lingering in the Musain once the meetings were over, sending texts to continue unfinished debates. 

He had tried to ignore this new warm feeling, the giddiness that filled his chest when he and Enjolras shared a moment alone, or how his goading smirks turned into genuine smiles when the leader turned his attention on Grantaire. He had an inkling of what these feelings were, but the thought had terrified him and he desperately wanted someone to tell him otherwise. He confided in Jehan- which had been a mistake.

The gentle poet had reassured him, though, that Enjolras felt the same way and that's when Grantaire really started paying attention. He caught the way the blue eyes lingered on him just a little longer than the others, how he always found a way to carry on their conversation even though they had long since settled the topic. If Grantaire's phone bill charged him a little more during the month because of just how long their calls lasted, well, he wasn’t going to complain. 

That knowledge, really, was what scared Grantaire the most and what made their relationship so hard to describe. They were working a balancing act around each other, the two of them toeing the line and trying to figure out which one was going to make the first move. Grantaire was hesitant because they had finally found a peace, they finally found a common ground to walk on and it was so  _ nice _ to have. He feared that taking it to the next level, that unraveling the colors neither of them have shown yet, would destroy them entirely. 

And Grantaire didn’t know what he would do in his life without Enjolras as a force to guide him. 

So the cynic sat back and waited- it’s not like he even knew much about Enjolras anyway, as most of their conversations did stay on the topic of their friends and the Cause. It wasn’t because Grantaire wasn’t interested in knowing what made the blonde leader tick, but due to the fact that Enjolras lacked all ability to talk about himself. Even with years of friendship under his belt, the leader still felt like a stranger. A wonderful, elusive, stranger. 

Grantaire was pulled from his thoughts, wondering how he got lost so deep in them in the first place, when Enjolras finally shut his textbook and looked over at the cynic with tired eyes and a curious head tilt.

“You know me,” Grantaire replied to the unasked question, “I have to do my part in putting down peoples spirits and distracting them from their work, and then come over here to be a bothersome flee in your ear. Bzzzzz” 

Enjolras rolled his eyes and leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed, but there was no malice in the action and Grantaire grinned at his presence being welcomed. The motion that Enjolras made was like one that permitted the conversation to happen, and Grantaire would partake with glee. 

“Well, there’s nothing left for you to distract here.” 

“Then maybe I just want to bask in your glory. The light of hope, resplendent and blinding.” Waxing his typical poetry, Grantaire then rolled up his sleeves and held out his arms before his sun god, adding on the comment. “I have been needing a tan.”

Blue eyes, previously hazy from exhaustion, turned into sharp daggers and the cynic’s grin grew cheekier. Just because their relationship had improved at a fundamental level, that didn’t mean he was any less of an ass. Enjolras loathed being compared to a god, but he never outright stated if it made him uncomfortable, and the leader knew that the man was jesting, as Grantaire mostly did with this sort of claim.

“Ow, shit-“ 

“What?” 

“You burnt me.” 

The daggers fell apart, the stern pout breaking into an amused smile that the man tried so hard to hide behind his hand. He made a point to look away from Grantaire so the man wouldn’t get the satisfaction, but the artist was already delighted. He tallied the chuckle on the back of his sketchbook, which earned another small laugh from the blonde. It had started off as a running joke between the two, a bet, that had slowly become a habit. 

“But really R,” Enjolras said, recomposing himself and stretching his arms. “What is it? You came to me for a reason, and I know it wasn’t to ah.. What did you say? _Bask in my glory?_”   
  
Grantaire stared at Enjolras, his teasing grin softening at how the other became sheepish and embarrassed as he repeated the phrase. It was cute, really, the way pink rushed up to his cheeks and settled at the tip of his ears. The question did remind him of his purpose and he forced his beating heart to still for just a moment so he could relay his concern,

“Have you seen Joly and Bossuet?” 

Those were the only two that had been missing from his moment of peace earlier, their usual banter gone. He was positive that they had been at the official part of their meeting and had sat through various speeches and the delegation of tasks. Neither of them had said they would leave either, which was odd in and of itself. They always announced their departure, it had been a rule in Les Amis De’ ABC ever since Jehan had gotten into serious trouble when they snuck out and disappeared without telling anyone. Montparnasse had settled the situation then, but the fear that struck the hearts of the rest of the Amis had made that rule a permanent ,though unwritten, one. Regardless of that, Joly always made a point to say goodbye to Grantaire and he hadn’t yet. 

Enjolras’s brow suddenly furrowed and Grantaire's suspicions were confirmed. The leader then sat up in his seat, blue eyes scanning the room for the missing duo with his lips set into a tight line. Grantaire could see the traces of worry his face and his immediate thought was to brush it away with the stroke of his thumb. He held tight onto his glass to be sure  _ that _ didn’t happen. 

“No,” Enjolras answered slowly, “But they were just here. Maybe they went to get drinks?” 

“Yeah, but how long does that take?” Grantaire rebutted, frowning as well. “You could be right though, what was it you asked them to do?” 

Enjolras then moves to the red binder that he kept for all of Les Amis de ABC activities and quickly flipped it open to that weeks notes, his finger gliding down the page until he found it. “Bosseut was to go and replace our old flyers this week, and I asked Joly to talk to some of his professors about helping us with our next charity event.” 

It didn’t seem too difficult of a task, Grantaire knew that. Joly was incredibly close to his professors as well as his advisor for his internship, his bubbly and kind personality would surely get a few of them to participate. The group had slowly moved towards charity work, not because there was nothing to be protested, but simply because the work they were putting out was visible and not as easily discredited by the media.

After a few too many protests and events gone wrong, the group had been left frazzled and dazed. Combeferre had made the logical suggestion to move away from the hot scene for a bit until the price on Enjolras’s head was lessened and the groups hope had returned at full force. That’s where the charity work came in. 

Grantaire had his doubts and reservations, he always did and made a living off of countering Enjolras, but it was a harder case to argue. The things that were being planned were no longer protests that required safety measures and escape routes, but events that had regulations and were easily backed by donors. 

Charity work also got them more members and participants, as well as businesses that wanted to get involved to look good. As much as Enjolras hated the system, the group knew how to work it for a good cause. 

But Grantaire can tear them apart at a later time. The moral of his friends had increased the more volunteer work they did, and as long as they were safe that was all he really cared about. Who cares if what they were doing would be useless in a few years time? They weren’t getting shot at and beaten. 

“Did he seem okay to you?” Grantaire asks, rubbing at his jaw and feeling the scruff on his chin.

“Joly? He did have his cane today…” Enjolras muttered, biting his lip in thought and Grantaire had to force himself not to stare. He did roll his eyes though and wonder why on earth he had asked Enjolras if he noticed anything wrong. The man seemed to be relatively oblivious to emotions, or at least when people were trying to hide them. He takes things at face value, which is a truly wonderful trait to have but often resulted in serious miscommunication. Well, for Grantaires it did.

But if Joly did have his cane, it meant his knee pain has flared up and if it was enough for Enjolras to notice then it must have been bad. Perhaps Bossuet took him home early to rest his leg, but that still wouldn’t explain the departure without warning. Joly’s anxiety also tended to worsen on days where he needed his cane because, despite reassurances, he still felt like a bother to his friends. It was absolute bullshit for him to feel that way, but anxiety was a bitch and Grantaire would know. 

The cynic then stood, placing a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder to try and diminish his worries before he went to go and search for the missing duo. He didn’t make it far, his mouth open to relay his plans to the leader before he was suddenly disrupted by the door banging open. 

Bossuet hurried into the room, his eyes wide and hands shaking as he looked around at his friends with a silent plea for help. They all fell quiet, brows furrowing with concern and Grantaire approached him, 

“Boss man,” He greeted, a worried smile on his lips but his tone light. “You alright? What’s going on?” 

Bossuet looked over at R and the concern that Grantaire felt immediately sky rocketed.

“It’s Joly, I can’t.. I can’t get him to calm down.” His voice was trembling. Grantaire felt a wave of relief wash over the whole room, shoulders losing their tension and frightened worry turning into friendly concern. Bossuets tone had been so grave that the imagination of his friends had taken a turn for the worse. Anxiety? They can deal with that. They were losing their ability to cope with anything worse. Experience does not always grant ease.

“What do you mean?” Courfeyrac asked, having settled down on top of the table. 

“He’s worrying about everything. I can barely understand what he’s saying but he was talking about finals and internships? I think? And then something else about his father…” Bossuet scratched at his head and would have been pulling out his hair if he had any. It was obvious to his friends that his sudden inability to calm his lover had shaken him. “I just- I just feel so  _ stupid _ because I can’t calm him down? And I don’t know what to do or what to say anymore and he- he shoved me away and locked himself in the bathroom- he never does that and I-“ 

“Hey hey..” Grantaire hushed, his arm around Bossuet's shoulders and pulling him into his side. He knew it was bad if Joly had locked himself away from Bossuet of all people, that was incredibly out of the ordinary. Jehan frowned and walked over to them, cupping Bosseuts face in their hands and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. 

“It’s okay,” The gentle poet cooed softly. “It is nothing for you to feel foolish about, there is nothing stupid about this. You are trying and that is more than anyone could ever ask for you.” 

Bossuet nodded as he listened to the words, but his eyes were still watering with hurt frustration, his hands clenching and unclenching, nails creating half moons in his palms. He was worried, that much was clear, and the rest of the Amis had felt the same. Joly had a tendency to succumb to anxiety and nervousness, but it was nothing Bossuet couldn’t handle. This was the first time the group had ever heard of Joly kicking Bossuet away, and it seemed to be the first time for Bossuet as well. 

While the others sat around and tried to find an answer to what was happening, Enjolras had begun shifting around his things and fishing in his bag. Grantaire glanced over at him with curiosity, but Enjolras was too busy doing… whatever it was he was doing and the artist continued to watch him without understanding. The leader grabbed his car keys from his bag, looking around at the group before making eye contact with Bossuet. 

“I got it.” He says, his words powerful and reassuring before he makes his way out the door and down the stairs towards the bathroom where Joly had locked himself up. 

The room relaxed the moment Enjolras left, their shoulders sagging with relief and they all sat back in their seats. Even Bossuet became settled, leaning into Grantaire a bit more before moving to take a seat besides Bahorel. The burly man gave him a reassuring smirk, a rough pat on the back, and handed him a drink which Bossuet took with comfort. 

Grantaire still stood in the center of the room, lost. He didn’t understand what just happened, his eyes darting from Bossuet to the door and back. The group had divided and starting chatting amongst themselves again, disappearing off into random conversation while Grantaire was left stranded. 

“Wait…” He mumbled, before slowly increasing his volume and raising his hand into the air, waving it to demand attention. “Wait wait wait- hold up!!” 

The group quieted again, turning to Grantaire. Some looking on in amusement, others with a quizzical brow. Combeferre, understanding exactly what was happening, had buried his knowing smirk behind his glass. 

“What. The Fuck. Was that?” Grantaire asks, gesturing wildly to the door with his arms and earning a few laughs from his friends. 

“What was what, my dear comrade?” Courfeyrac huffed, heart shaped glasses that he pulled from god knows where low on his nose, feigning an odd accent. 

“That.” Grantaire said, knowing that his explanation was enough- or at least believing it was. “Enjolras he just- since when-  _ I got it _ .- What the fuck does that mean?” 

For as long as Grantaire had known Enjolras, he never saw the other as a very… comforting... person. He was tactile and affectionate, he loved his friends dearly and he was always supportive of everything they did. (Grantaire had stopped being surprised when Enjolras would randomly show up to his galleries) But the cynic wouldn’t consider the leader to be the type to coddle and hold hands with someone if they were upset. That usually fell onto Courfeyrac, the center often taking the distressed by the hand and guiding them away while Enjolras continued the meeting. 

Courfeyrac’s eyes widened in understanding before his face split into a sudden, massive grin. 

“Oh my god..” He said, crouching in his chair with his hands on the back of it, peering over at Grantaire like an animal ready to pounce. “You’ve never had a Ride with Enjolras before have you.” 

It was worded as a question, though the friends knew it was anything but. Grantaire could hear the capitalized R, and it only made him more curious. 

“A.. a ride?” 

“No, dude, a  _ Ride _ .” 

“....” Courfeyrac and Grantaire were caught in a stare down, Courfeyrac locking eyes with set determination and Grantaire looking on in confusion. “Okay, so is anyone else going to explain what that means?” 

This earned another laugh, one that rippled around the group. Combeferre chuckled softly, stealing Courfeyrac’s heart glasses and stopping him from antagonizing the poor cynic. Jehan hummed with amusement, arm linked with Bossuet still, 

“Whenever anyone is upset, Enjolras will take them on a ride. Around the city, to the country, he’ll just drive.” 

“Now, it doesn’t happen  _ often _ . It’s not some cry or when we’re feeling pissy or anything like that,” The boxer said, stretching his arms out behind his head. “It happens when we’re really in a dark spot, then he comes to us with that… what did you call it R?” 

“Don’t-“ 

“ ‘Sparkling golden halo of Apollo’” Bahorel quoted, though Grantaire was more than positive his own choice of words were more elegant. He was a little offended that sparky was the best the boxer could come up with. “Like a fucking light, this asshole comes to us and-“ 

He cuts off with a laugh and a shake of his head, leaning forward in his seat and grabbing his glass, taking a swing. “God, this is such a good story- I’m honestly surprised I haven’t told you before. Sit back and enjoy it R.”

Grantaires decided to heed a shovel’ s advice and sat down at the table, taking his old seat next to Marius who had finally pulled away from his computer. Even he seemed to know what was happening and Grantaire couldn’t help but feel a little slighted that Marius was more in the loop about something regarding Enjolras than he was.

“I’m listening.” He said, gesturing for the tale to begin.

“So, I was in a.. bad spot.” Bahorel started, readjusting himself one last time as if to tell the story of his life. “I was pissed, livid, I couldn’t focus, couldn’t do shit- I don’t really know what started it, I just remember waking up one morning and screaming at the traffic for being loud. The whole week was like that. I think Enjolras found out when he asked me for a report and I sent him a document with a dick made out of middle finger emojis.” 

Courfeyrac snorted, “I kept that, it’s framed in my room.” 

“Good, I spent time on it.” 

Grantaire wasn’t particularly following, though he knew the severity of Bahorel’s terrible week by the disrespect alone. No one disrespected the blonde like that, Bahorel had even threatened others on the leaders behalf. The middle finger emoji fell more along the lines of what Grantaire would do, but even still it wouldn’t be done in placement of a task. 

“Shit…”

“So of course,” Bahorel continued, shrinking away from the affronted look of Jehan and Bossuet, the two offended on Enjolras’s behalf. “Of course I felt awful immediately afterwards because you just don’t do that kind of shit. Especially to Enjolras, right? So I’m ready for the Disappointed look, bracing myself for it at the meeting the next night, and then there is a knock on the door and guess who is standing there? Fucking Mr.Martyr-in-Red with his keys in his hand and his car still running behind him!” 

That earns a couple of laughs from the friends, Grantaire joining along because it’s so easy to visualize. Enjolras has shown up unexpectedly on his own doorstep and it is quite the experience, regardless of the reason for his arrival. 

“He doesn’t even say a fucking word man, he just side steps and points to his car. I thought - I swear to god if I didn’t know I could physically overpower him - I thought he was going to kill me. I may or may not have peed my pants a little bit.” 

“So what did you do?” Bossuet asks, a smile toying on his lips. 

“Got in the goddamn car is what I did.” Bahorel says with a nod, hoisting up his drink to that and taking another swing. The room was energetic and alive again with the story, the expression of the man telling it and how real it all felt to them. Grantaire was still somewhat at a loss, but began putting the pieces together and they surprised him in the most pleasant way. Enjolras drove his friends around whenever they’re upset? He supposed that wasn’t too outrageous, but he couldn’t imagine it being pleasant. 

“Then what? Did he start talking to you?” Grantaire asked, needing to know just how this worked. He couldn’t imagine an aggravated Bahorel having one of Enjolras’s famous Conversations™, though he had an inkling of an idea that he was one of the few rewarded with those.

“No.” Bahorel answers, shaking his head and eyes wide with the memory of horror. “No.” 

“If you think Enjolras is scary when he speaks, he is terrifying when he is quiet.” Courfeyrac says, his own eyes wide after having been victim to Enjolras’s silent treatment since they were children. 

The group cheered, lifting their drinks and giggling at one another’s antics and for a moment Grantaire is once more overwhelmed with affection towards his friends. 

“Right, anyway-“ Bahorel says, swatting Courfeyrac’s arm lightly and pulling him back to the present. “I get into the car and I’m already preparing my apology speech, I am ready to beg for my life. He gets in, I open my mouth and he doesn’t even look at me as he shoves the aux cord into my hand. I’m confused, but I don’t want to do anything to piss him off even more, so I plug in my phone and start playing music I know he likes.” 

“Trying to ease the blow by appealing to him?” Jehan asked, though they were all aware that trying to appeal to Enjolras while using his likes and interests doesn’t particularly work. 

“You could say that, but he gives me this questioning look as he pulls out of the parking spot and it feels like I’ve done the wrong thing. We’re driving down the road now, he still hasn’t said a word, and I’m sitting there like an idiot with my phone in my hand. Now, keep in mind I’m still pissed as fuck, I can’t think straight, I’m stressed out, I’m upset, I just insulted him and now I’m thinking the absolute worse- Oh shit, so that’s what you felt like?” He suddenly turned to Grantaire, who narrows his eyes and flips him the middle finger but says nothing in protest. 

“So I just say fuck it and play my own god damn music, that good rock shit you know? Because I’m feeling like garbage and this steady beat that his music has just isn’t doing it for me. But I keep it at a decent volume and I sit back against the seat and just start pouting, because he still wasn’t talking and what else was I supposed to do? Then you know what that asshole does? Do you know what he does?” 

“What?” Courfeyrac asks playingfully, pressing his chin into his hands and acting along with the story. 

“He stares me straight in the eye and turns the music all the way up.” 

“All the way?” 

“Yes you kinky bastard, all the way.” Bahorel says, unable to help his smile. “I’m staring at him in shock and he just looks back to the road. I know that this shit is loud because this is how I play music in my own car, so I try and get the pressure out by rolling down the windows-“ 

“I don’t think that's how that wor-“ 

“And he  _ lets me _ . So we’re driving down this road, there are barely any cars on the street because it’s like fucking midnight- did I mention it was midnight?- the music is blasting, the windows and the sunroof are down, and we’re.. well, we aren’t going slow that’s for sure. And I’m…” His smile becomes loopy, genuine, affectionate, thinking back on a memory that felt surreal. “God, I just feel shit slip. I start screaming along to the lyrics, I stick my head out the window, I fucking let it all out and he’s sitting next to me and is just driving- just letting me use this outlet. I stand up and stick my head out the sunroof and I know he freaked out, could just tell that out of everything I did to that car, it was the only thing he didn’t particularly approve of. Even still, he didn’t say anything.” 

“Was he mad though?” Grantaire asks, taking in this new information with vigor, amazed. He never anticipated or imagined Enjolras would be the type to speed down the roadways at ridiculous hours with rock music blaring out of the windows. 

“No man,” Bahorel laughs, shaking his head. “We drive around for… god, it must have been a couple of hours before we finally get back to my apartment and I’m exhausted but I haven’t felt that good in… I haven’t felt that good in months. He asks me, then, if I wanted to talk about it and it’s the first time he’s spoken directly to me the entire ride and I just… I couldn’t even think of what I wanted to say, couldn’t explain what had me so mad because it was just _gone.”_

“So what did you do?” 

“Scared the shit out of him by pulling him into probably the most uncomfortable hug ever. Dragged that skinny ass over the damn center console and potentially bruised a few ribs.” Bahorel replied, not looking sheepish at all. Combeferre rolled his eyes at the man and continued to read, probably having been the one to question Enjolras on the bruises that manhandling had probably caused.

“Did you ever ask him about it?” Grantaire wondered, amazed at the secret he’s been let in on- though it appears it wasn’t much of a secret anyway.

“Nope.” Bahorel popped the P, shaking his head. “It felt like some hallucination so I wasn’t going to question it, and he didn’t act any different either. It wasn’t until I told Jehan over here that I realized it was, you know, a _thing._” 

“Jehan?” The cynic turned to the poet with a questioning brow, not able to see them blaring music at odd hours in the night when they were upset. “That doesn’t seem like something that would comfort you.” 

“Oh, its not!” They said, waving a dismissive hand and smiling over at Grantaire, cheeks rosy with delight. “Oh no, I would get overwhelmed if I wasn’t already. My ride with Enjolras was actually completely different. He’s driven me out to the countryside before, to park at the edge of the road and stare up at the stars. It was so nice but we ah, haha, we ran out of gas when we were headed back.” 

“You guys went so far…” Combeferre mumbled with a shake of his head and affectionate smile. “I swear, if I didn’t have finals the next week I would have been asleep and the two of you would have been stranded.” 

“I think we would have been okay with that.” The poet hums truthfully, his tone light and airy. “The next time though, he took me to a garden instead and just let me write my thoughts. Sometimes it would only take thirty minutes or so, sometimes it would take hours, and he sat by my side the whole time.” 

Grantaire smiled over at Jehan, fully realizing now what Enjolras would do for his friends. Not only would he cater to their whims, did he recognize what it was that they needed to return to normalcy during an emotional breakdown, but he was also giving himself up for them. He wasn’t being comforting or consoling, he wasn’t being helpful or questioning, he was just being _there _and sometimes in the darkest moments that is really all you need. A warmth, a light, undisturbing but present.

If Grantaire didn’t care for Enjolras before, he surely did now. Just knowing how much love and affection he had for all of his friends made Grantaire all the more sappy about the man. He was just a bit envious though, that he would be able to admit, having not gotten one of those rides himself. Then again, the times he would have needed them most, Enjolras had been under the impression that Grantaire hated his guts. 

The cynic had cleared the air on that information the moment he found out that that was what Enjolras had thought, needing to let the other know that it was far from the truth. It was the first instance that Grantaire had seen the human in Enjolras, in the s elf-doubt the man had and his tolerance to those who he had thought despised him. 

Still.. perhaps there had been rides, but they were ones he couldn’t remember. There are some vague visions of moving streets, Enjolras’s face shifting in and out of focus as the other drove down the road, looking over at Grantaire with worry and concern, mouth moving as he tried to talk to him. Grantaire would wake up from those dreams in his bed with the worst headache imaginable and now he began to wonder if those were ever dreams at all. 

How many times had Enjolras picked his intoxicated ass up from the side of the road or a bar fight? How many times had Enjolras driven Grantaire home without the latter even knowing? 

Guilt suddenly courses through his veins, a vile taste in his mouth. It had been a while since Grantaire had been that wasted, having learned that mistake when someone else got injured because of his antics and he had been unable to remember how it happened. That alone had terrified him enough to make him question his choices. 

“He’s a good man.” Bossuet said, the others nodding with agreement. 

“Who is a good man?” 

The group jumped, turning to face the door where Enjolras stood, the blonde unknowing of the context of their previous conversation. 

“Obviously Donald Trump-“

“Drink bleach.”

“With pleasure.” Grantaire gagged, making a face and scrunching up his nose. He shook his head aggressively as if to shake the cheeto out of his conscious.

Enjolras sighed, gave a slight roll of his eyes and moved over to the table. He stood behind Grantaire, his hands holding the back of the chair as he gently leaned his weight against it. The artist was almost comforted by the proximity, glancing up at the leader with a smile one would call gentle. After a quick scan of his friends, Enjolras turned to Bossuet, “Joly is currently with Musichetta at her apartment, he’s calmed down. Would you like me to drive you there?”

Bossuet shook his head, smiling up at Enjolras and he began to shift himself out from between Jehan and Bahorel. “No, it’s fine. I have his things in my car still, so I’m better off taking it to him.” 

Enjolras nodded and moved to the side for Bossuet to pass, his fingers brushing against Grantaire's shoulder as he shifted and causing the artist to shudder. The balding youth paused on his way towards the door, turning back to gaze at his group of friends before making eye contact with the man in the red sweater. Golden curls bounced just a bit as Enjolras’s head tilted slightly to the side, a slight furrow in confusion as Bossuet continued to stare. Grantaire could see Enjolras open his mouth, but suddenly the man was gone. His face was hidden in the embrace of Bossuet, who had hurried back across the room to pull the blonde into a tight hug. 

“Thank you Enjolras.” Bossuet murmured, his words unheard by everyone else in the room. Enjolras relaxed, returning the hug loosely and giving Bossuet a steadying pat on the back. When they pulled apart, Enjolras gave him the slightest of nods and the smallest of smiles.

“Send Joly our love!” Jehan called out to Bossuet as the man walked out the door. 

Enjolras gave out what could have been a little huff, as if signaling the conclusion of his work. He moved away from the large table that the friends had all gathered around, instead shifting to his own. As caring and compassionate as he was, Grantaire was always amazed at how distant the leader appeared to be- even though the artist knew Enjolras was anything but. There was so much contradiction in him, cold as ice and bold as fire- a heart and life so full of love and friendship, but a demeanor that kept him distant and faintly aloof. Enjolras sat back down, pulling out his notebook to continue writing and working on his essay. Grantaire caught Combeferre staring at his oldest friend, something soft and unspoken hides tucked away behind wired frames. The artist, too, was caught with a burst of affection, turning away from Enjolras and attempting to bury what he knew was a lovesick smile in his cup. 

The remaining friends soon dispersed. Jehan left when Montparnasse’s shadowy frame graced the doorway but didn’t enter any further then the first step- as if the light of joyful hope would scorch him. Bahorel walked out with Courfeyrac, the two heading out to the bar. The invitation had been extended to Grantaire and he responded with a maybe, wanting to sit back and question Enjolras on this new and exciting information. 

It was just the guide and the leader left, a duo that Grantaire had once been too intimidated to be alone with for longer than ten minutes. Then again, most people were intimidated when Enjolras and Combeferre were spotted doing what could be called nothing other than scheming. Now he was simply content, his pencil gliding across the page of his sketchbook to match the soft waves in Combeferre’s hair. By the time Grantaire had completed the very base of the soon to be doctors face, the man had gathered up his things and was waiting by the door. He glanced down at his phone before looking over at Enjolras, the blonde having pulled out a book.

“You’ll be at the apartment later, I presume?” Combeferre asked.

Enjolras glanced up from the pages and nodded, “Yes, I’ll be there in about an hour or so. Is there anything I need to pick up from the store?” 

“I’ll check when I get home.” Combeferre replied, lifting up his phone to show the other. “Text me when you leave.” 

The leader replied with a dismissive wave, once more submerged in his reading. The guide rolled his eyes, sharing an exasperated look with Grantaire. R smiled in return and offered a little shrug of condolence. Combeferre scoffed at him, smiled, and then departed with a wave of goodnight. 

The artist immediately rose from his seat and stalked over to Enjolras, spinning the available chair around right next to the leader and plopping down in the seat. His arms folded over the back of the chair, looming forward with a grin splattered across his face.

The blonde glanced over at Grantaire and raised a curious brow at the man, slowly and gently closing his book. 

“Yes?” 

“Why didn’t you tell me you drive the emotional incapacitated around?”

Enjolras snorted, though it was more of a huff of disbelief that came unexpectedly through the nose (Grantaire would still call that a snort, fuck your pretentious language Enjolras), and placed his novel onto the table. 

“What?” He asked, stifling a laugh.

“You know!” Grantaire said, waving his hand around. “What you just did! Drive your friends around when they’re upset, take the time out of your day or night to make sure the people you care about are okay.” 

“It,” Enjolras started, cheeks tinged just a little pink. “It didn’t seem all that… I can’t say important, simply because I know that being there for someone is important, but I don’t feel as though I should be obligated to..  _ gloat _ for the things I do? I do them because they are my friends, nothing more or less.” 

“And to think I thought you were emotionally constipated.” The artist teased, earning a pencil to the head and he wasn’t even apologetic about it. 

“Don’t start with that stone statue spiel again.” Enjolras pouted, crossing his arms with a furrow in his brow. The artist smirked, bending over to pick up the pencil that had fallen to the ground and used the eraser end to poke at the puffed up, pouty cheeks.

“Only you would use alliteration out loud.” 

“Only you would call it out.” The leader shot back, snatching his pencil.

Grantaire grinned wickedly, wondering why he had ever made the choice to spend his time wasted beyond belief. He wondered how he could have shown up to meetings drunk out of his mind, dreaming of moments like this and drinking more because he never thought he would get them. He was delighted to be able to have this, that despite the struggles of the past few years, he could now sit alone in the back room of the Musain with the golden leader of the revolution and speak with him as a friend. He knew better now, that Enjolras was a stone statue only in appearance- his jaw was sharp but his expression was soft, his tongue like a blade but his gaze could be gentle.

The artist unhooked his arms from the chair and reached forward, grabbing the bottom of Enjolras’s chair and pulling him closer. He laughed at the sudden startled noise that the leader had made, his arms floundering around in an attempt to restabilize. The book still closed in his hand, his pout intensified. It was the cutest thing that Grantaire had seen and he wanted to do nothing more than photograph it. Maybe with a Polaroid camera. Make it as cliche as possible.

“But seriously Enj,” Grantaire started, looking at the other. His tone shifted, the teasing turning into something more genuine. “I one hundred percent believe that you are one of the few genuinely good people in this shit hole of a world.” 

Enjolras’s cheeks flushed and he attempted to turn away from Grantaire, his fingers idly picking at the corner of his folder. He seemed conflicted, flustered at the comment but also utterly incapable of fighting back the urge to crush Grantaire's negativity. “You don’t believe in anything.” 

“I believe in you.” 

It went quiet, but the silence wasn’t something Grantaire felt compelled to worry about. His head tilted to the side, watching as Enjolras attempted to hide a gentle and embarrassed smile behind his hand. Blonde curls tumbled in the others face and Grantaire dug his nails into his arms to stop himself from brushing them away. The silence was comfortable and steady, the pair of them sitting next to one another and simply enjoying the others presence. There was a soft smile gracing the blondes lips as he continued to toy with the fraying edges of his binder and the artist was content to sit back and sketch him. Enjolras eventually grabbed his book and opened it up to his page, continuing to read while slightly leaning on Grantaires. The cynic didn't mind, able to adjust the notebook in his hand and accepting the small warmth. The leader wasn’t typically unnecessarily tactile unless he was comfortable enough and in solitude. He was not one to join a giant cuddle pile unless it was forced upon him unexpectedly, but he was gentle with his friends in a comfortable silence. He would place a hand on shoulders, he would brush up and support the weight of others. He was cat-like, picking and choosing when he wanted to be touched and when he didn’t. 

Grantaire was elated to know that he was the chosen one tonight.

They sat like that for another hour or so, Grantaire glancing up from his work when he felt Enjolras’s body grow heavier against his. He looked to the blonde and smirked, the golden head bowed down and eyes closed, his book slipping out of lax hands. The artist shifted and Enjolras startled awake, moving groggily and Grantaire chuckled softly. He stood and put his notebook back into his bag, turning to face the other, 

“Come on, time to go home.” 

Enjolras blinked up at him, blue eyes glazed over. Then came a slow nod, rubbing at his eyes as he blindly fished around for his bag. Grantaire grabbed Enjolras’s phone and moved to the exit, leaning against the doorway and taking a moment to text Combeferre that they were on their way. He didn’t want to overthink his time alone with the leader, as the more he thought about it, the more his mind twisted it into something it wasn’t. 

He thought back to Jehan’s words and his own observations, watching as Enjolras walked around the room to ensure that nothing was left behind. There was a time when the two of them being left alone in a room for an extended period of time would be considered catastrophic. Grantaire would purposefully be an asshole, would intentionally try and bring the worst out of Enjolras in any despicable way imaginable. Now they’ve gotten older, times have changed- his heart had warmed and they had both grown. As adults, as friends, as people. 

And perhaps as lovers, someday. When Grantaire would finally accept and acknowledge what he was feeling, when Enjolras would finally allow someone to take the controls from him- even if for just a moment. 

That time was coming, soon. It was in their everyday lives, in their passing glances, in their late phone calls. 

It was in the long drives Grantaire couldn’t remember and the late, bloody nights that Enjolras was desperate to forget. And while Grantaire would follow the leader blindly, would bask and trudge after his light- it was here, in the soft moments that their love would grow.

Where Enjolras, tired and spent, would put all his trust in Grantaire and together they would make their way home.

**Author's Note:**

> Peep my writing style changing like four different times over the course of this fic. Come say hi on my Les Mis Blog https://monenj-olras.tumblr.com


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